Wanting You
by allemptyoflove
Summary: Ana, who has to resort to working as a stripper to afford her college tuition, finds herself being the startled object of a rich man's obsession and desire. That man, fixated on the brunette beauty he watches dance every evening at a nightclub, is Christian. Despite their obvious social and lifestyle differences, can they help each other find what they want in life? AU/sex.
1. Chapter 1

_**Hi, I had an idea come to me, this will be different but hopefully still true to the characters E.L James created. Ana is a stripper working hard to afford college, while Christian is his usual, CEO possessive self. I would love to know if its something you'd like to read more of. This is inspired by the movie Pretty Woman, pretty much. Hope you enjoy the first chapter. I own nothing of the characters, they remain the authors respectfully, I just adore them.**_

 _ **Wanting you**_

 _ **Christian**_

I don't know why I keep coming here, but all I know is that there's something comforting about being in a room filled with other people; Other people that, you can't help getting the impression, are just as fucked-up and lonely as you are.

The lights are low, flashing fluorescent red to white as I sit in my usual spot, in a fake red vinyl booth by myself, drinking my tumbler glass of gin and tonic, with Hendricks. After a hard day at work, I often find myself coming here, losing myself in the vibration of the bass music beats, of the pulsating lights. Or maybe, who am I kidding? Lately, it isn't because of the atmosphere at all.

It's because of... something else entirely.

Taking a slow sip of my drink, letting it tingle on my tongue, I glance around the strip joint, looking for My Girl. My Girl, as in Brunette. I don't know her name or what age she is. All I simply know, is that she's a Brunette. She isn't My Girl either, but I feel she should be.

The first time I saw her, I couldn't keep my eyes off her. The way she works the room. The way I was reduced to being like every other man in this sleazy place- captivated, entranced by her.

She'd taken to the stage, doing her little routine. Long dark hair, flashing blue eyes. A shy yet alluring smile on her face. That night, she had been dressed in little more than thigh-high fish net stockings, stilettos and a black bra. I remember being intoxicated by her, by the way she moved, prancing around a pole, gyrating to the beat of the music.

Ever since I'd first seen her, I'd been hooked ever since. I couldn't get her out of my mind.

Admittedly, at work, I'd started fantasizing about her giving me a private lap dance. I'd wonder how it would feel to peel her out of her fish net stockings, to brush my hands up her silky thighs. I thought of how it would be if I'd bent her over a desk, spanked her, the little noises she'd make. How I would kiss her, how her lips would feel. The noises she'd make as she came.

That was why I was here tonight, just like the many other nights before it. Seeing her do her little performance, it has now become an addiction, a craving I cannot get rid of.

She must be eighteen or nineteen- I don't think she's anywhere older than that.

One night last week, I'd come in early before she started her routine. She'd walked past me, and I'd seen her better in the light. How carefully painted her lips were red, the bottom lip plumper than the top one. As she'd walked past, her ass was begging for me to spank it, teasing me in her tight shorts.

Sighing as I glance around the room, I check my wristwatch again. It's already fifteen minutes later than the usual time it is that she comes out on stage to do her little show. I'm growing agitated. Sad panicky feelings start to develop inside of me as I lean back in the booth, checking the exit for any sign of her. Am I too late? Have they changed the hours she does her little show? Or does she no longer work here anymore?

It horrifies me, how disheartened I feel over the thought of never seeing her again. I don't even know her, after all. I've just seen her, admired her from afar. Yet the idea of never getting the chance to see her again absolutely devastates me.

Swallowing another sip of gin and tonic down, I start tapping the glass impatiently with my fingers.

Come on, Brunette Beauty, where are you? I'm waiting for my show, I'm your devoted fan.

I like to think of you as mine, and not a day goes by where I'm not thinking of fucking you until your sore...

Do you even notice me sitting here, always waiting for you and you alone?

Can you see how much I fucking want you?

 _ **Ana**_

Five minutes until showtime...

If someone had ever told me that this is how my life would turn out, I would have laughed straight in their faces. Yeah, right. Me? Working as a stripper, an exotic dancer for men? I would have thought I would have been the very last person to have a job like this. Yet, sometimes, we can't afford to be picky. Beggars can't be choosers.

After failing yet again at multiple job applications, I'd seen a notification looking for dancers in the jobs column in a newspaper advertisement. The job called for a female, around 18 to 35, with reasonable dancing skills, a woman well presented. The job advertisement had made the vacancy position seem so normal, so classy. I hadn't realized until I'd gotten here for the interview, just exactly what the job was and what it entailed.

I've only been working here for less than a month, and the pay has been pretty good. Men are generous with their tips and we get to keep a percentage, which helps.

I'm saving up to afford my college tuition and then, once I have enough, I hope to leave this life forever.

Being an exotic dancer is not my dream job. I have bigger aspirations, like getting into college, studying English Literature. This is just something I hope to do until I can get enough money.

It hasn't been too bad. My boss, Jack Hyde, can be annoying but he's also encouraging of us girls. There is about twelve other girls who work here, and we all get along really well. We egg each other on and support each other. If a male client gets out of line, another girl always steps in, reporting it to Jack or just intervening if the guy gets too handsy and rough.

I think the friendship I've developed with the girls here is about the only reason I like it.

It's degrading at times, and demanding. My heels are constantly hurting and my toes ache at the end of the day. And the bruises; I am always covered in bruises, from either accidentally knocking myself on a pole or just being clumsy. But as I said, the pays good enough so far, I've found.

I just can't ever tell my Mom or my stepfather what I do for a living. It would be embarrassing. I always lie and say I work at a grocery store near here, just so they won't start worrying.

Brushing my hair, I pull it up into a tight ponytail, then fix the elastic band around it. Then I swoop my bangs with my fingers, scowling at myself in the grotty, make-up smeared mirror in frustration. My fringe refuses to sit right tonight, but at least my make-up is perfect.

My red lipstick coats my lips perfectly, not a smear in place. My eyeliner brings out my large blue eyes.

I stand from my chair, readjusting my stockings around my thighs a bit more comfortably. Then I grab my stilettos and sit again, pushing each ankle into the heels. I strap them up securely, and stand again, breathing deeply through my nose as I turn on my side, inspecting my outfit for tonight.

I'm wearing a fire-engine red midriff top that shows off my belly, my stilettos matching in color. At least I can wear somewhat modest clothes, but seeing as I'm showing off my legs and my butt in the G-string I'm also wearing, it isn't as modest as I'd like. But we all have things we have to do to get by. I'm a lot luckier than the other girls so far.

Some of the long time workers, they've already done private lap-dances in the other special rooms. I haven't done that as yet, seeing as I'm new and I'm not quite ready for it yet. I also know that some girls, on the side, know how to get extra tips. Some secretly give handjobs to make a bigger buck. The thought of doing that, it makes me queasy.

"Hey, girl." My heart races and I startle as one of the girls, Kate, suddenly pounces into the room in her heels. Kate's one of the girls I get along with really well here. She's my age, also trying to save money for college. She's blonde, green-eyed, and she's even what I'd consider sexy. "You just starting your shift?" she asks as she walks past me, and she sighs loudly in relief as she collapses into the chair next to the mirror.

I smile at her nervously as she reaches down, rubbing her toes. I wish I could be more like her. Kate's adventurous and confident in her looks. She has no hesitation in wearing G-strings or going topless.

"Yeah, I am," I admit to her, smoothing my hands down my sides, trying to suck in my belly. "My dance is coming up in five minutes. Is it busy out there tonight?"

"No busier than usual," she assures me. "I saw your guy out there already."

I feel myself flush at her words, rolling my eyes. "He's not my guy."

"Well, your devoted fan," she amends with a laugh. "Pretty sure he's out there waiting for you."

There's this guy, about in his late twenties or early thirties, that always seems to be sitting out there whenever I'm due to start. The girls like to joke that he's obsessed with me and that I ought to offer him a lapdance. Apparently he leaves straight after I've finished up for the night.

He's rather good looking and well dressed too. Kate likes to sometimes refer to him as Mr Richy because, her words, he looks rich, like a young entrepreneur or something. Apparently wearing designer tailored suits and ordering fine bottles of champagne makes you rich. Admittedly, I have noticed him paying extra attention to me whenever I'm out there. He'll just stare at me- his gaze intense, focused, beneath the red flashing lights.

There's something about the guy that is rather sexy, but I would never be confident enough to approach him, even while doing what I'm doing now, often dancing in G-strings on stage, while other men jerk off or cat-call me.

My time is up.

"I better get out there," I breathe under my breath.

"Have fun. Blow a kiss to Mr Richy."

Sighing at her words and shaking my head, I move towards the door, my stomach in knots. Heading out at the start of a shift is always the worst. It's the time my anxiety really gets going.

Lifting my chin high into the air, I try to focus on nothing else but the song that starts playing on the speakers. Also, I try to make sure I walk in a way that's confident, praying I don't trip in my heels or stumble.

Kate's right and it's nerve-wracking. It seems a bit more crowded tonight with men.

There must be a bachelor party happening or something, because I first notice two tables are utterly full of rowdy men. My eyes sweep the room to that one single table and, surely enough, there he is. My devoted customer.

Mr Richy.

There he is all right, sitting at his usual booth which is, admittedly, where the best view of the dancers are. He always sits there, sipping his drink, dressed head to toe in what seems to be the finest menswear. I notice he sits up in his seat, crossing a leg over his thigh as he makes himself more comfortable, settling himself in for my performance. Maybe the girls are right, after all?

Maybe it is only me he comes here for, hard enough as that is to grasp?

I head towards the in-built stage, concentrating on breathing deeply. The red pulsing lights are confronting, flashing in and out before my very eyes.

"Take it off!" I hear a man call near the stage boisterously. "Take it all off, baby! We want to see your tits and pussy!"

Hearing such vulgar things isn't such a shock to me now. First night I did this, I was petrified, and I felt sick and startled when hearing men shout at me. Now, I ignore it, focusing on moving my body instead.

I run a hand down the length of my ponytail as I stop at the center of the stage, then start moving, doing my thing. It's always easier to focus on one single person in the crowd. That person, for me, always seems to be Mr Richy for some reason. I find him as I start moving my hips in sync with the beat, doing my usual performance.

The strobe lights flash over his face, illuminating him more clearly. Up here, he definitely looks like sin on a stick. Chiseled, masculine jaw combined with cheekbones, but not in a feminine way that some men have. No, he's purely masculine. Full bottom lip, his lips always arched slightly at the corners whenever he watches me. That gaze of his, intense, unwavering, like Mr Richy is undressing me with his eyes himself, following every single movement I make.

I used to feel so awkward when I was practicing this, but now I don't. I've learned how to make sure my arms aren't stiff or awkward, and I always keep my hands busy, just as the men like. I caress myself, running my hands over my legs, around my crotch. I'll bend slightly, putting my hands up over my head,stroking my face. Then, drag my fingers lower, down my chin, past my throat, stroking my cleavage.

It becomes just me and Mr Richy in the room.

I clench a hand around the pole, striding forward while my other hand, I teasingly let run up beneath my midriff, over my belly, showing him- and all the others in the room- a peek at it.

"That's it, baby! Show us your tits! Take it off!"

Kate's playful words came back to me out in the other room and I do it, without thinking.

Bringing up my hand while making sure I have Mr Richy's attention, I blow him a kiss.

 _ **Christian**_

I can hardly believe my luck when I think I see Brunette Beauty do what she does.

Her fuck-me-I'm-shy eyes on nothing else but me, she raises her hand, pressing her palm to her lips. Then she waves it towards me with a flourish, blowing me a kiss. My first impulse is to glance behind me, to make sure it's actually me that she's doing it to.

But I don't need to, I know she's doing it right at me, daring little thing she is. There's no one behind me.

I need this girl. I need to have her, goddamn it.

Fingers curling tighter over my glass, I raise my drink to her, saluting her.

Oh, baby. Don't you know what you've just started between us? Talk about trying to put out a fire with gasoline.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hi, I had an idea come to me, this will be different but hopefully still true to the characters E.L James created. Ana is a stripper working hard to afford college, while Christian is his usual, CEO possessive self. I would love to know if its something you'd like to read more of. This is inspired by the movie Pretty Woman, pretty much. Hope you enjoy the first chapter. I own nothing of the characters, they remain the authors respectfully, I just adore them.**_

 _ **Wanting you**_

 ** _Anastasia_**

I don't know where my confidence came from to blow him a kiss, but after I do, I notice him lift his glass in the air, raising it to me. Holy crap, the man is too smoking hot for his own good. And he raised his glass to me!

But I can't just focus on him, much as I'd like to. I have to give others in the room my attention as well. Clasping onto the pole with my hand, I move around, directing my attention elsewhere. There's a guy, about in his late 50's, standing at the stage with a drink in his hand, watching me. I direct my attention to him now while I move, stroking myself, getting lost in the beat. He's practically drooling as he watches me, then he holds up his hand, showing me he's got a tip for me. Pushing off the pole, I prance towards him, coming closer.

I can smell the alcohol on his breath as I get down on my knees near him. He pushes the bill down my top where my cleavage is, and I smile at him as seductively and sweetly as I can manage before getting to my feet again. Tips always help, and the more closer you get to someone, the more you focus on the man and try to reel him in, the more generous he becomes.

After 5 more minutes, my dance is done. I'm perspiring lightly as I climb down the stage carefully in my heels. As always, after a dance, there's always a group of rowdy, eager men wanting to talk to you in private. I glance behind my shoulder while licking my lips, my gaze going straight to Mr Richy's booth. Unfortunately, he's never one of those men that approach me afterwards. much as it seems like he wants to.

I can see him now, sitting in the booth, same as always. His head is turned in my direction, the red strobe lights flashing and lighting up his face every second, making him seem like an attractive devil in disguise.

He seems perfectly content to watch me from afar, which is a shame. Maybe he's shy or he's trying to be respectful of my own personal boundaries? I would kill to know what his voice sounds like.

"Really good dance," a guy says near me, and I turn back to give him my attention. He's part of a group of guys from what looked like a bachelor party, I think. There's a whole group of them, of either eight or ten. They've been drinking beer every since they got in here, shouting and being loud with their laughter and celebrating. Can't tell who the groom-to-be is though. "You looked really good up there, baby."

I've noticed ever since working here that, even though they don't know you, they call you 'baby' a lot, or some other personal pet name and endearment. Maybe it's the alcohol that makes them let loose?

"Thanks, I really enjoyed it myself."

"You do lap dances by any chance?" He pulls out his wallet. "My pal over there, he's getting married next week. He's a little shy. Think you could do him a favor and give him a lap dance?"

It's a shame that I have to refuse. I have no experience with doing private lap dances, as yet. Jack is supposed to train me next week. I could really use the extra money though obviously.

"Sorry, I can't," I say frowning. "But I can suggest other girls here that would be happy to, if you'd like?"

"What? You don't do lap dances?" He steps closer, standing over me, maybe to hear me better over the noise. He better be careful. Jack, my boss, has this policy where the men aren't allowed to touch us, especially not in an overly grabby, aggressive way. Standing too close and seeming intimidating to us girls is another behavior he won't stand for. "What kind of stripper are you if you don't even give out private lap dances?"

"Well, I'm sorry. Maybe another time." I peer around the room nervously, seeking my boss or another girl. Hopefully if someone else sees what's happening, they can explain and verify what I mean as well. But I can't see Jack or another of the girls anywhere right now. "Believe it or not, we have to undergo training for that sort of thing. I'm fairly new here."

"What?" He gets closer, shoving his mouth near my ear. "Why would you need training for that sort of thing? That's pretty fucking stupid, don't you think? All my pal needs is a lap dance and to see your tits, okay? He's getting married, it's his last chance!" I can sense the guy becoming more and more aggravated by the second, but there's nothing I can do but apologize.

I can't do lap dances yet, until I've had the appropriate training. Or so Jack's told me.

"I believe the lady said she can't give your friend a lap dance without the appropriate training," a smooth curt voice says behind me. Assuming it's my boss Jack coming to save the day, I turn towards him in relief. Only it isn't Jack.

My stomach somersaults at the realization. It isn't Jack at all, but Richy.

Mr Richy stands there, behind me, glancing between me and the pushy guy. I feel like I cannot even breathe properly when he gets in front of me, closer to this overeager guy who desperately wants me to give his buddy a lap dance. He's taller than the other guy, at around an impressive six feet or so.

"So how about you get the message and back off. She can't give your friend a lap dance," I hear Mr Richy finish in a cool, sultry voice.

I see the other guy raise both hands in the air innocently, then he mumbles something to me past Richy, something like an apology.

All the tension seems to leave me as finally, the guy leaves, returning back to his table with his group of friends. Mr Richy stares after him, making sure he truly leaves me in peace, I guess. I cannot believe it though. I've honestly been waiting a very long time for this, for Mr Richy to finally make his move and speak to me rather instead of just staring at me. And finally, he does it! He comes to my rescue and the way he handled that guy... it was impressive.

He unbuttons his black suit jacket as he finally turns back to look at me. Mr Richy's gaze is dark and penetrating, annoyance written all over his face over what just happened. Damn, I have never met someone with such smoldering intense eyes before. It's almost like he's looking straight though me. In my experience, it's usually the good looking, sexy ones that you have to look out for. They can be dangerous, and Mr Richy, he has an essence of danger all over him.

"Are you all right?" he asks, leaning closer through the music. His voice is just as I imagined it would be. It suits him; It's masculine and deep, just right. Sultry and gentle with concern too.

"I... I think so," I mutter. "Thank you so much for that. I was fearing he was about to give me trouble."

"Your welcome."

It takes me a moment to find my voice again. I cannot believe that the man is actually near me, speaking to me right now.

"I think Jack's hiring for more security if you're interested?" It comes out of my mouth stupidly before I even know what I'm saying.

His brows furrow at me. "Jack?"

"Jack's my boss. And, um, you seemed to handle it really well just then? I know Jack's looking for security guards for us girls if you're interested? You seem really good at it?" I don't even know why I'm saying it. The way he looks and dresses, it's obvious he already has a well-paying job. He's probably a hot-shot lawyer or something. Why am I offering him a job like an idiot? Or maybe it's just due to nerves?

I roll my eyes at myself while lifting both hands, yanking the elastic band out of my hair. Then I scoop back up my long hair with my hands, lifting it away from my neck. I feel too warm all of a sudden, too sweaty in the club. I notice his eyes follow the movement of my hands. His dark smoldering eyes inspect my exposed neck and collarbone briefly.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asks next, surprising me. Well, I'm not so much surprised by his obvious chivalrous manners because a man dressed as good as him, I figured he'd have to be educated and polite. But I'm more so surprised by the offer. No one here has ever been kind enough to offer to buy me a drink before, even though I could never accept in the first place.

"That's kind of you, but I can't," I murmur with a disappointed smile.

"You can't or you won't?"

"I can't," I clarify. "It's against regulations. We're not allowed to accept any drinks from anyone, especially not on the job and while working. Thanks, though."

He blinks at me, thinking my words over with raised eyebrows. Then he brings up a hand, running his fingers through his hair. His hair looks so tousled and soft. I wish I could do that myself. Mr Richy definitely seems like he takes care of himself, not only in the way he dresses, but his personal appearance as well.

"Really?" he asks with an edge to his voice. "Is that true or are you just lying?"

"Excuse me?" I blab out, confused. Is he really daring to call me a liar?

"With it being against regulations?" I can't quite hear him properly through the thumping music. He must sense that himself, because Mr Richy steps closer, close enough that his mouth is near my ear. I can smell him, up this close. He smells delicious, like expensive men's cologne. Rarely do men in here smell this mouthwatering. Mr Richy does take care of himself, indeed. "I can't even buy you just one small drink?" he mutters in my ear, and I shudder involuntarily at his closeness, his voice.

I've never had such a reaction towards a man before. Maybe it's because he seems like a different specimen entirely?

"Sorry, no," I murmur back against his earlobe. I can see a faint dark outline of stubble around his jaw and chin from being close the way we are. I wonder, if I dared to rub my cheek against him, if it would feel just as deliciously rough as it looks? "I really do mean it. For some reason it's against policy here for us dancers."

"And what about you coming back to my table with me then? Just to talk for ten minutes at the most?" He leans back slightly to meet my gaze, licking his lips. I find myself captivated by his mouth. The man definitely is too fine for his own good. "Would that be allowable, just talking for roughly ten minutes?"

I hesitate, biting my lip as I think his offer through. I can't see why that wouldn't be allowable. "It might be okay," I murmur, nodding. "I can't see why not. Ten minutes of talking wouldn't hurt, would it?"

Nodding once, he extends his arm out to me. My eyebrows arch in surprise, and I have to press my lips together to stop myself from smiling too big at his manners. Mr Richy definitely is different from most of the other customers in here.

I take his arm, wrapping my hand around it while he leads me through the crowd back towards where he sits at his favorite spot, at a booth in the center of the room where it provides the best view of the stage. I still cannot believe what I'm doing right now or that this is even happening.

Finally, Mr Richy is speaking to me instead of leaving straight after I finish my performance. I'm interested to know what his real name actually is, instead of nicknaming him Mr Richy. I'm curious to know why he only seems to hang around to watch my performance too.

He looks back at me a few times, like he's making sure I'm still following him, which obviously I am, because I haven't let his arm go. When he does it again, I see his eyes roaming down my legs and the ridiculous heels I'm wearing. He puts his face near my ear, surprising me yet again, "Am I walking too fast for you?"

Yeah, definitely considerate and different, all right. "Yeah, it's fine. I think I'm getting used to walking in heels."

As we reach his table, I remove my hand from his arm. He stands back, gesturing with his hand for me to sit first. Once I'm comfortable seated, he sits beside me himself while running his hand through his hair. Again, I find myself struggling not to smile in amusement at his manners.

Mr Richy shifts slightly against the vinyl seat so that he can face me more, his legs parting while he rubs his palms back and forth over his trouser pants. I wonder if he's feeling nervous for some reason.

"I'm going to go get another drink," he then says in my ear over the music. "Wait right here."

As he stands, leaving the booth to where the bar is, it dawns onto me how much like an order his voice was just then. Demanding me to wait right here, as if he has the right to boss me around. Seeing as I'm truly curious to see what he wants to speak about, I let it go, my eyes following him as he approaches the bar. He's taller than most of the men here; I see the back of his head easily, the way he leans in towards the bartender to make his order.

Then he turns back to look at me, as if checking I'm following his orders and that I'm still waiting, and I feel my heart race in my chest as he meets my gaze.

This will definitely be interesting. I wonder what he wants to talk about or if he'll give me a name.

I glance away from him, licking my lips to moisten them. Then I feel an uncomfortable sensation around my breasts in my top, a scratching sensation, like something's poking me. I dig my fingers beneath my top, searching with my fingers around my breasts, and when I peer over at Mr Richy again while my fingers touch that sharp item that's scratching my boobs, I feel embarrassed when I see him watching me. He's already on his way back, carrying the drink he ordered.

And now he's catching me digging my hand around, feeling out my breasts. I flush as I whip the offending item out, trying to ignore him as he sits beside me again while placing his glass on the table. I glance down at what's in my hand and remember it's the tip that guy gave me on the stage, the one that shoved it down the front of my top.

The sharp corners of the money were scratching my breasts, I smooth it out with my fingers, checking to see how much he's given me.

It turns out to only be a dollar bill, but it's still good enough. Money is money. Every bit counts. Every small percentage of tips is a bit more to go towards being able to afford college tuition.

I look over in Mr Richy's direction while licking my lips again. He's being awfully quiet. I thought he wanted to talk or does he just want to sit here in silence?

"What's your drink of choice?" I force myself to ask, gesturing towards his glass.

"Gin and tonic," he says, and then he parts his legs again, taking up an extra bit of the booth with them.

His kneecap brushes against me, and just by the fabric of his trousers rubbing against me alone, I know his suits must be so expensive. Mr Fancypants.

He leans back in the seat, making himself more comfortable. And then he lifts up his arm, resting it along the back of the booth. It's a bold move. Now, whenever I move, the sleeve of his jacket touches my bare shoulders as well. Is he trying to seduce me or something?

"How long have you worked here for?" he asks, turning to look at me, finally speaking. He plays with his glass of gin and tonic, turning it around on the table with his fingers, his gaze on nothing else but me.

Ah, so is this what he wants? To hear about my life? "Why do you want to know?" I ask, hoping to keep it mysterious. I notice him smile faintly at my own question.

"Curiosity, mostly."

"Less than a month," I admit. "How long have you been coming here to see us girls dance? I've noticed you coming in whenever I'm due to perform?"

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, flicking it over it. "I heard about this place only recently. My brother spoke about it and he suggested I check it out. He enjoyed it the last time he was here apparently, so I came along."

"Does your brother come here a lot too?"

"Not anymore," he says. Richy finally lifts up his glass, taking a sip. Even drinking something, the man is hot. Leaning towards me in the seat, he brings his gin and tonic with him, moving the glass towards me. "What would happen if you just had one sip very quickly?" he murmurs. "If we kept it a secret between us and no one else sees it?"

"Then nothing." I shrug. "Nothing would happen because it would just be a secret between us."

What he does next, it has my stomach jolting. Eyes bright on mine, he moves the glass, holding it until its near my lips. Daring, this man definitely is. Dangerously daring. I can't resist, even although I shouldn't. Keeping my eyes on his, I lean forward, letting him hold the glass while I purse my lips over it. He tilts it back just the slightest bit, and gin and tonic pools into my mouth. I move my mouth away, swallowing the alcohol down quickly. It's delicious and refreshing.

"Your definitely different than most of the men I've come into contact with here," I admit quietly, licking my lips.

"How so?"

"I've been working here less than a month, and I find no guy really wants to just... talk normally for a couple of minutes. It's like, put on a G-string or bra and immediately your not a human being worth talking to. Your just a... a sex object pretty much." I peer over at him quickly, wondering if I've bored him.

He doesn't seem bored at all. He seems to just want to listen. It's so incredibly nice.

"Your just someone to be looked at or... or someone to satisfy a man's fantasies," I continue, ranting. "It's what I've noticed ever since starting here. You become a girl that men just want to look at or jerk off to because your wearing a G-string and your dancing a little sexily."

Any second now, I expect him to be turned off and to leave. I know men think it's whiny, moaning about this sort of thing.

To my surprise, he doesn't. I glance over at him again. He takes another sip of his gin and tonic, his eyebrows raised, as if he's thoughtfully considering what I'm saying. Different, different, different.

"So what does your girlfriend think of you coming here all the time?" I ask curiously. Surely, he has to have a girlfriend. The man is fine. Surely a woman has already snatched him up?

"I don't," he murmurs, and he glances my way while swallowing another mouthful of his alcohol. "Have a girlfriend, I mean. I answer to no one." He peers down at the contents in his glass thoughtfully. "And what about you? I bet it drives your boyfriend into a jealous rage, knowing your here showing off your delectable body to other men?"

My delectable body. He finds my body delectable. It does not go past me.

"I answer to no one," I say, copying him. "I have no boyfriend so... no one is there to really mind. And even if I did, I wouldn't let that stop me."

"So you enjoy working here then?"

"Not necessarily, but the pays good. We all need to work."

"Well," he sighs loudly, "I know if that were me, I'd go crazy."

"If it were you- what?" I murmur, not following.

"If I was your boyfriend," Mr Richy explains, turning his eyes to mine again. He stares into mine deeply with no hesitation or embarrassment there whatsoever. I feel myself flushing and hope he can't notice through the lights. How bold of him, how... confident. "If I knew you were working here, late into the evening, wearing your-" He pauses, his eyes dropping beneath the table to where my fishnet stockings are and my legs. He licks his lips, "-the clothes that you do, I'd go crazy, because you'd be mine, and I'd want you all to myself. I couldn't stand the thought of other men looking at what's mine."

 _You'd be mine and I'd want you all to myself._ Jesus. He makes it sound so enticing, so hot, regardless of how sexist that somehow seems.

"Well, I'm not yours, am I?" I point out. "I don't even know you?"

He doesn't answer. I see Mr Richy reach into his jacket pocket, drawing out a leather wallet. I know his intentions the second he opens it up, and I don't want it. I don't want it, not just for speaking in a civilized manner with someone. Especially not with him.

He pulls out two fifties and holds them out to me between his forefinger and middle finger. And it's tempting. It's so damn tempting. He's willing to give me a hundred frigging dollars just for talking? It would really help. But I can't.

"You've insulted me," I murmur, purposefully turning away from him.

"I have?" He sound surprised. "How so?"

"Because we're just talking and yet, you think you need to pay me for that? For talking like two normal people?"

I only just need to peek a little in his direction to know he's still holding the money out despite my words. It's unbearable. "Well, I want you to take it anyway. I make enough money that I won't miss it, believe me."

"Oh, and I'm sure you do," I mutter under my breath. "What exactly is it that you do for a living? The way you dress, you seem like a lawyer or something?"

"Not even close to it." I glance over and see he's still holding the money out. Damn him. "Take it," he says, and there's that edge to his voice again. It's an order. He's bossing me around. "I own my own company. It's very successful. I get paid a lot of money by the hour."

"So?"

"So, I want you to take it."

I move around in the seat to look at him, my blood burning. He stares back at me, a pleading look forming in his expression as he shakes the money at me with his hand. Can't he see that I won't accept his damn money? Can't he see that he's even managed to insult me on some level?

"We were just talking," I say, as calmly and quietly as possible. "There's no need for a tip or charge for that. I'm not taking your money just for you being a nice guy and for showing me that there are some rare men that come in here that do treat us girls like humans and not flesh to be leered at."

Mr Richy stares at me for a moment, his eyes going darker with irritation. He clenches his jaw, like I've really succeeded in pissing him off for not accepting the money. Then his eyes drift down my neck, towards my collar bone and the shirt I'm wearing. I see it coming when he tries to do it next. In a fast, speedy move, he tries to shove the cash down the front of my shirt, into my cleavage. I knock his hand away before he can even do it, getting to my feet hurriedly.

I don't know why it bothers me so much but it does. I had just hoped Richy would be different.

"Screw you," I spit out through my teeth, my eyes flashing with tears. "I'm not taking your money, Richy."

"Richy?" He repeats softly in surprise, the word sounding good on his tongue.

Oh, shit.

"Screw you," I murmur once more, fixing the hardest look I can at him. Then I move away, striding across the room, trying to get my emotions under control again.

 ** _Christian_**

I watch her leave, my eyes following after her.

She walks in a furious, fast way, her arms swinging at her sides, strands of her glossy dark hair swaying around her shoulders. And then, without another glance in my direction at my table, she leaves, exiting through a door.

I feel so fucking confused. Why had she reacted like that? I was only offering her money?

I peer down at the money I've still got between my fingers, frowning at it. Then I scrunch it up into my hand, shoving it down into my pocket roughly.

She walked away from me. My Brunette Beauty dared to walk away from me, and I didn't even get the chance to ask her name yet. She wouldn't take the money.

I shake my head in bewilderment as I purse my lips over the glass, finishing the last of my drink up. I slam the empty glass back down onto the table, peering around the room again. I don't know why I bother. I know she hasn't come back out.

When I frown down at the empty glass, I notice a slight smeared imprint of her lipstick around the side of it from when I'd given her a sip. That fucking mouth of hers and her smart-mouthed way of refusing to accept the money. If she was truly mine like I often like to think she is, I would be following straight after her, storming through that door on her tail after the nerve she had.

After our conversation, I only feel in the same predicament as I always am whenever I come in here, watching her, always admiring her on stage and the way she works the room. But perhaps, after hearing her speak, after getting to know her little... it only makes that feeling worse than it usually is.

I'm left, as always whenever I come in here, wanting her. I want her, but now, after speaking briefly, that want has intensified.

I want her more now. I need and want her even more than I did before.

Her and her smart fucking mouth. My dick comes alive at the thought. God, what I would do to her if she were to reenter the room right now...

 **Thank you for your kind reviews, it truly drove me to update and encouraged me. They talked finally at least. It would be great to know what you think, what do you think of stripper Ana and this Christian so far?**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Hi, I had an idea come to me, this will be different but hopefully still true to the characters E.L James created. Ana is a stripper working hard to afford college, while Christian is his usual, CEO possessive self. I would love to know if its something you'd like to read more of. This is inspired by the movie Pretty Woman, pretty much. Hope you enjoy the first chapter. I own nothing of the characters, they remain the authors respectfully, I just adore them.**_

 _ **Wanting you**_

 ** _Ana_**

It's nine thirty at night when my shift is over. I get changed in my 'normal' clothes; Clothes more comfortable in the staff private area where most of us girls get changed and make our preparations for our shift. I change into jeans and a shirt, then shrug on my black jumper. It's meant to be rather cold out tonight and, where I live, it's a bit of a walk away from the club, but fortunately not a too long walk.

I live by myself in an apartment in an area that's sort of small and decrepit. It's the only place I could afford with rent; Just a small one bedroom, with peeling wallpaper walls and a lock on the front door that's a bit iffy to get into. But I'm confident once I make enough money, I can move out into a location more secure once I can also afford to start college.

I kick off my heels, tossing them into the gym bag I always take with me, as well as my 'work' clothes. I hate walking in stilettos, so I mainly try to limit walking in them only when I'm on the job. My feet don't get sore as much that way. I pull on a pair of socks and slip into my old sneakers. Walking home will be that much easier in the comfort of my casual clothes and my trainers.

Before I head out, I approach my bosses office. Jack isn't such a bad boss. At first, I sort of assumed he was sleazy during the interview process. He kept assessing my body and my legs in the skirt I was wearing. Now, I realize it was only simply because he needed to know how my body looked, for work purposes. Our personal appearance is something taken important in this line of work. He only just wanted to judge what my body type was and what clothes I would look the best in.

He'd also played some music and tried to coerce me into dancing, which I'd found rather uncomfortable and weird at the time as well. But it was only to assess how my dancing style was as well and if I had the right moves for being a dancer at his club.

I knock on his door while pulling out my tips for the night. I haven't gotten too much, but Jack always take a small percentage- for business running costs and that sort of thing.

"Yeah, come on in," he calls and I push the door open with a smile. He looks up at me from where he sits at his desk, his blue eyes gleaming. Jack's about in his late twenties or so. He's what I suppose young women would find conventionally good looking. Blue eyes, and slicked back hair. "Oh, hey Ana. Has was your night?"

"It wasn't too bad," I murmur, purposefully trying to ignore what happened earlier with Mr Richy. I've been trying hard not to think about it or let it upset me, but sometimes it's hard to switch yourself off mentally. "I got a decent share of tips."

"Yeah, honey? What you got?" I hand him over my tips and he counts it out on his desk into two piles. He pockets one pile, handing me over the other. "Not bad for one day's work. You had any problems out there?" It's always Jack's business to know whether something went down. He's sort of here to protect us and make sure us girls are all right.

"Not really. There was just one guy that was pushy, wanting a lap dance for his buddy."

"Oh, yeah, about that. I'll have a talk with Naomi and see if she's free to teach you a little of how it goes in the next few days, all right?"

"Okay, sure." Naomi is another one of the girls that has been working here for a very long time. She's one of the popular ones; Men always love her and want lap dances especially from her. "Well, I'm off now, Jack."

"See you tomorrow at 3.00, honey. Don't forget."

"I won't. Bye." I leave his office, shoving the door closed behind me. I count out my half of the money for tips on the way out the back entrance. And Jack's right; It isn't too shabby for one night. I've got one hundred and eight dollars free to use on whatever I like.

I know I have a utility bill coming up soon at the apartment, so I know I'll have to keep some saved in case for that. But it seems like maybe tonight I can splurge a little in getting a quick bite to eat before heading home.

Shoving the strap of my gym bag over my shoulder, I find the keys to my apartment and step out the back entrance. A few guys are hanging around out back and near the entrance, smoking. I can't tell if they are customers or not. I walk briskly through a cloud of smoke, trying my hardest not to breathe it in.

A long shadow jumps out at me from the corner of my eye suddenly, a tall person leaning off the wall of the clubs exterior, I stop in dread, and then... holy shit!

"Whoa, sorry," I hear a man say in a very familiar voice. "I didn't mean to frighten you!" Even though it's dark and shadowy, I think I recognize that voice. Mr Richy? But I thought he left earlier when I'd told him to go screw himself? Why is he out here? Was he waiting for me?

"Holy crap. You did frighten me!" I clasp my hand over my mouth, breathing heavily, trying to regain my calm. And then I burst out laughing, my heart still hammering in my chest. "What are you doing out here?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to grab something to eat for dinner or if you'd like me to walk you home?"

My fear seems to die down as I process his words. Now bewilderment and disbelief has replaced it completely. What? Richy's asking me out for dinner or if I'd want him to walk me home?

"Your asking me out to dinner?"

"Yes, or to walk you home. Either one."

Um, okay. It's a bit weird and obviously he waited outside the club until he knew I was leaving. I don't even know him aside from him coming into the club almost every night to watch me dance, and also, speaking briefly with him tonight, but... it's strange. While it's flattering that he asked me out to dinner, of course, I'm not sure I could let him walk me home. How do I even know I can trust this man? I'm not completely foolish. I know all about being wary of strangers. Why would I allow him to walk me home when he could easily be a rapist waiting in action or some sort of serial killer wanting to find out where I live just so he could break in and attack me?

But I was planning to grab something to eat on the way home anyway. There's a shop near my apartment that makes delicious freshly made sandwiches and nice coffees. I know the owner pretty well, too. They're not very expensive either. Maybe it wouldn't hurt accepting his offer for dinner, seeing as I was planning on doing that myself?

"Um, sure," I murmur, still breathless with surprise. "Grabbing something to eat with you would be fine. There's actually this, um, place I know where they make really lovely freshly made sandwiches?"

"Sounds great," he mutters in agreement.

And then we start walking together, with me leading the way down the street. Now that we've reached down the road, the streetlamps illuminate our paths better and I can see his face more.

It really isn't everyday I have someone asking to grab a bite with me, but seeing as I rather enjoyed speaking to him in the club tonight, I know I wouldn't mind getting to know him a bit more. And, hopefully, put a real name to the gorgeous face as well, so he isn't just Mr Richy.

"Do you always usually walk home at this hour after you've finished working?" he asks me, finally breaking the silence between us.

"Um, yeah, I do. It's always been fairly safe though. I haven't had any problems."

"And you don't own a car?"

"I don't. Honestly, getting a car is sort of the last thing on my list of priorities at the moment."

"So you don't have a car and you always walk home in the dark?" Mr Richy actually sounds amazed.

"Um, yes," I reply with a laugh. "Why is that so shocking to you?"

"It isn't. It just doesn't seem very... safe?" I think he sounds disapproving, but it isn't like I have any choice. "Aren't you worried when you have to walk home at this hour?"

I shrug, slowing my walk so that we're matching each other's slow, effortless strides. "Not really. I've gotten used to it."

I imagine someone seeing you, a young woman, walking alone, carrying a fairly large gym bag, you'd look like an easy target?"

"Well, appearances can be deceiving," I mutter. "I have my apartment key that I can always use as a knuckleduster. Plus, I'm pretty good at hitting a man in the groin with my knee." There, I am not so defenseless.

"Hmm," he simply says. I wonder what he's thinking or why he made that noise. Why is he even asking me about this anyway?

We walk four blocks until we reach the little place I was speaking about. I point it out to him, and he doesn't say anything as I push my way inside through the door happily. He enters behind me, glancing around as well. Now that we're lit in the deli, I realize how out of place he looks, not only in the sandwich shop, but with me as well. I'm wearing casual clothes, sloppy stuff, and here he is, dressed to the nines in what looks like a lawyer uniform. I know he said he isn't a lawyer, but that's how I think his clothes look.

"Ah, there you are," Harry says behind the counter. Harry's the shop owner, and since I come here practically whenever I can for his delicious sandwiches, we've started striking up harmless conversation whenever I'm in here. He doesn't know what I do for a living, of course. I had lied and said I was a student.

"Hey, Harry," I smile.

"How's the study coming along?"

"Really good. Um, I'll just have the usual, please."

I almost forget about Richy being with me, until I turn and suddenly see him there. He raises his eyebrows at me, "The usual?"

"Oh, it's just a wholemeal sandwich with, um, salad and chicken," I explain, clasping my fingers together in front of me.

"All right." He stops forward and addresses Harry, asking for the usual as well. Then he asks if the store accepts credit cards, which it does, I know that for a fact. Harry and him talk, getting on surprisingly well as Harry adds up all the costs of the sandwiches. And then I realize Mr Richy's actually paying for my sandwich as well...

Harry leaves us to get started on making our sandwiches. I feel so bad now that he's paid for me. It wasn't why I agreed to getting a bite with him at all.

"Thank you," I murmur appreciatively when Richy turns to look at me, shoving both hands deep into his trouser pockets. "I really wasn't expecting you to pay for my sandwich as well. I would have been happy to pay for my own."

"Please, I insist." My mind is suddenly paralyzed with overwhelming fear as he spots one of the tables where I usually sit down to eat my sandwich at.

He gestures at it with his arm, then pulls the chair open for me. I realize we have practically nothing to talk about. I mean, looking at him compared to me, what common interests could we possibly have? He said he owns his own company, whereas I graduated from high school barely three months ago and I took this job where I'm an exotic dancer to save up and afford college tuition eventually.

We're like apples and oranges, Mr Richy and I, I realize as I slowly sit in the chair. He pulls the chair open opposite me and sits himself, running his fingers slowly through his hair. I meet his gaze nervously, and he stares back at me lingeringly, his eyes bright, speculative.

"So what do you study?" he asks with interest, cocking his head slightly.

Study? What? "Um, I... I don't?"

"Right." He blinks at me in confusion, then gestures towards where Harry is behind the counter, preparing our sandwiches. "But you told Harry over there that you study?"

"Oh." Oh, crap. "I don't really study obviously. I mean, I want to, I wish I was, but... I can't exactly tell Harry what my true profession is now, can I?"

Understanding flickers in Mr Richy's gray eyes as he nods once slowly.

"So you were waiting for me, huh?" I ask, even although I already know the answer. "You were waiting for me outside so that you could run into me?" It's obvious that he was. I'm not sure what to think about that honestly. I don't know whether to find it unnerving or opportunistic and flatteringly persistent of him.

"I was, yes."

"And don't you find that to be sort of... stalkerish?"

"Maybe." He smiles at my words, an amused smile. "Perhaps it was a little 'stalkerish' of me, as you put it. But seeing as you left so abruptly inside the club, I felt I had no choice but to track you down."

"No choice?"

"Yes. I wanted to... apologize for insulting you in there, like you said."

Oh, yes, that. Now when I think of it, I'm sort of embarrassed by my behavior. Maybe I was slightly overreacting? But honestly, I was offended in some ways. I didn't want him to pay me just for talking, as if it costs money to do such a thing.

"Well, thank you for apologizing." My voice is soft, breathless. "And your forgiven. Just please don't try offering me money again. Especially not right now."

Richy smiles again at my words. Damn, he has a really nice smile. "Consider me warned."

Suddenly, Harry interrupts us, carrying over our sandwiches on two individual plates. I smile at him thankfully while he urges us to enjoy happily. Since I'm starving, I dig in, grabbing one half of my sandwich. When I take a large bite of it, cramming it in, I look and see Richy hasn't dug into his sandwich yet. He's staring at me while I eat rather impolitely and greedily.

"Harry makes the best sandwiches," I tell him after swallowing down my mouthful. I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand hastily, paranoid I have food on me, because all he's doing is staring. "I come here practically all the time. Try it," I push him, a little unnerved by his staring.

After that little bit of encouragement, he finally picks up his sandwich half, biting into it. Drinking gin and tonic from a glass, and now... eating a mouthful of bread and chicken salad filling, he looks too great. I catch myself staring at his mouth as he moans in agreement over how good Harry is, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

"You're right," he murmurs after swallowing. "Harry _does_ make good sandwiches."

I take another huge bite of my sandwich, and then I realize I'm eating in an unladylike gluttonous way. I finish chewing my mouthful slowly, then wipe my mouth quickly on the back of my hand after swallowing. When I look back over at Richy, I see he's eating very slowly, very cleanly- if cleanly is even the right word for it. He eats like what I assume a posh person would eat like.

"Sorry if I'm eating real quickly," I murmur apologetically. "I'm just usually famished after work. I know you probably wouldn't think it would, but you wouldn't believe how much dancing takes it out on you."

He swallows his own mouthful, then licks his lips. "I have no doubts that it does."

"So you said you aren't a lawyer?" I prompt, curious for more. I want to know more about him, but he doesn't seem like he wants to give too much away.

The corners of his mouth twist into a faint smile. "No, I'm not a lawyer. I meant that."

"And you own your own company, like you said?"

"Yes, I do." He sits up more straight in the chair, his eyes on nothing else but mine. "I'm not sure if you've heard of it, but it's called Grey Enterprises."

"Nope," I admit, wiping my mouth again on my hand. "Sorry but I don't think I have heard of it."

He shakes his head a little. "It doesn't matter."

"So what do you do at this Grey Enterprises?"

"Well, I'm head CEO which means that I'm in charge of employing over forty thousand people. I also helped establish the company with a close colleague and old friend of mine." He sighs loudly, heavily, through his mouth. I get the feeling he finds it mundane, speaking about it. There doesn't seem to be any passion in his eyes when he speaks of it. "We deal mainly with telecommunications. We also invest in manufacturing and that sort of thing." He definitely doesn't sound too eager to talk about it. I wonder why. His explanation, it sounds almost scripted, like he's used to saying those same words to people all the time when explaining what his company is.

"You don't sound very enthusiastic about it?" I observe, then take another nibble out of my sandwich.

"Well, I don't mean to be. I'm proud of my accomplishments and the businesses success, of course. It just gets tedious after a while, speaking about it to others."

He finds it tedious. Hmm, I figured as much.

"And so what about you?" Richy asks. He pops a bit of the salad filling into his mouth that's fallen out of his sandwich onto the plate. He chews in that slow way again, his gaze on mine with nothing but unwavering interest. His gaze is so intense, his eyes such a deep gray. I don't think I've ever met a man with such deep gray eyes before.

I shrug, dropping my eyes down to my half-eaten sandwich, "What about me?"

"How old are you?"

He's asking me how old I am? I lick my lips, bringing my gaze up to his again. "Haven't you heard it's rude to ask a woman her age?" I murmur, teasing a little.

He shrugs, still not breaking his eye-contact with me. His head tilts to the side a little.

"Well, if you must know, I'm eighteen."

"Have you graduated from high school?"

I don't even know why he has to know that. "I have. A couple of months ago, actually." I drop my eyes to my sandwich again, picking the half of it up carefully between my fingers. "I couldn't afford to pay for college so I decided to work for a bit and gain a bit more life experience until I can fully afford it when the time comes. I hope to be in college by next year."

"And you assumed becoming a stripper was an excellent way to gain life experience while working to get some money saved up?" I stare at him carefully, judging his expression while biting another chunk out of my sandwich. I can't tell if he's being rude or sarcastic or not.

"It was the only job I could get right now," I admit. "I took what I had to get, even if it... wasn't my ideal career path."

Richy picks up his own sandwich off his plate, holding it tightly between his hands, beginning to eat again.

"And besides, being an owner of your own business, I'm sure you know everything about what it's like to have to make some sacrifices in life," I add thoughtfully. He pauses mid-chew to meet my gaze again. "I'm sure you had to sacrifice some of the things you wanted in order to really get by. And that's what I feel like I've had to do. I wanted to badly start attending college but knew I couldn't afford it and seeing as I kept getting knocked back for jobs, this one at the club was the only one I'd found where the boss was willing to give me a chance right now."

"And what about your family?" he murmurs, raising his eyebrows.

"What about them?"

"Well, couldn't they have helped you with putting some money towards helping you pay your tuition to get into college?"

I know that some kids expect their parents to do that, but with mine, it isn't possible. My mom barely even makes enough money to support just herself, let alone save some away towards my college tuition. "It's really not that simple," I explain quietly. "My mom barely even makes enough money to support herself. And my father died a long, long time ago. It hasn't been easy."

"So how does your mother feel about what you're doing now?"

"She doesn't," I admit uneasily. "I mean, I lied to her. She thinks I'm working near here at a grocery store. I could never tell her where I truly work, of course."

"Just like Harry," Richy points out, jerking his chin towards where Harry's counter is.

"Exactly. Honestly, I'd rather no one knows right now."

"Because you're ashamed?" He guesses curiously.

"Not necessarily," I confess after a moment of thought. "I just know my mom would worry if she really knew. And also, that others would probably judge me. There's this... stigma attached to being an exotic dancer, I've noticed. It's just easier if no one knows." I finish the last bit of my sandwich off while seeing how much he's eaten of his. He's barely even touched his. "You don't like your sandwich?" I ask.

He glances down at it, as if only just remembering it's there. "It's not that I don't like it. It's just... distracting, listening to you."

"Distracting?"

"I find you to be extremely intriguing," he breathes, and then he reaches over, putting his sandwich on my plate. "Eat it," he urges, in that bossy way I've noticed he used earlier tonight. "Something tells me you need it more than I do."

I bite my lip, glancing down at his half-eaten sandwich. Then I decide to let it go. He's right; I'm still really hungry, even if I do feel sort of guilty eating his as well. "You sure you don't want it?" I ask uncertainly.

"I'm positive. Besides if I'm hungry, I can always easily get something to eat later."

"Suit yourself," I murmur, smiling thankfully. I pick up his half, sinking my teeth through the bread eagerly.

All the while, I'm aware of him watching me, examining me. Why does he stare? Does he feel sorry for me? Does he feel I'm some sort of charity case?

His words come back to me. Me? Intriguing?

I certainly haven't been described as intriguing before.

"Are you an only child?" he asks suddenly.

"Um, yes. Why?"

"I want to hear more about your family. Why can't your mother afford to help you with putting you through college?"

Wow, he's asking some really personal questions. I have no idea when he cares. "Depends on why you want to know?"

Richy rests on elbow on the table, bringing up his hand towards his face. He uses his fingers to stroke around his chin, his mouth. "Because, it's like I just said. I happen to find you intriguing."

"There's nothing honestly all that intriguing about me," I mutter with a shrug.

"Well, I happen to disagree." He stares at me, obviously waiting for me to start talking more about myself. I don't; Instead, I start eating his sandwich while staring back at him, blinking slowly, meeting him eye to eye. After a second, I see something resembling annoyance pass across his face. He sighs loudly. "You don't like to give much away about yourself, do you?"

"Not really, no," I admit truthfully. "But that's only because there isn't really anything to give away."

"Do you-" He starts, but then he stops himself. He strokes over his lips with his thumb. "No," he mutters quietly, but I'm not sure if Richy's speaking to me or not. "Maybe I shouldn't ask that. I don't want to insult you again like I had apparently earlier tonight by wanting to give you money."

"What?" I ask, curious. He's got me intrigued. And he dares to say that _I'm_ the intriguing one? "Whatever you want to ask, you can ask me. Just this once, though."

"Well, do you..." He hesitates again, licking his lips slowly. "Do you... have sex?"

I almost choke on the piece of chicken I'm chewing. Talk about personal. "Do I have sex?" I repeat out loud, struggling not to laugh out of sheer nerves. I cannot believe he's asked me that. "Why? We just started talking tonight and yet, you want to know if I have sex?"

"With the other men at the club? Do you have sex with the other men?"

He did admit he was worried I'd get insulted again, but I pressured him to come out and say it. So I can't really get insulted, can I? That's going back on my word. "I know some of the girls that do, on the side. I've heard it's a quicker way to get better tips. Not sex, per se, but... sneaky handjobs on the side." I know this for a fact, because some of the girls that I'm close with, they have confessed this to me. They' may have even suggested I start doing it, which I haven't, of course. But, there are times where I wonder...

"So you don't?" he demands.

"No," I whisper quietly, shaking my head. "I don't."

Mr Richy nods once, seeming satisfied by my answer. What? Would it make a difference if I did?

"I'm an exotic dancer," I point out. "I think of myself as just a performer, an exotic dancer, an... adult entertainer. Not a prostitute or anything like that." This conversation has turned me off the rest of the sandwich. I cannot eat anymore, my appetites gone. Really, I'm full anyway, considering I ate all of my sandwich and now, he's given me his. "I'm done now," I murmur, dusting off my hands.

"Can I walk you home?"

Now he wants to walk me home? I'm unsure what to do or how to answer when he stands from his chair, tucking it back in underneath the table. Should I let him? I don't even know him and he's a stranger. Who knows? He may end up being some sicko who wants to kick his way inside my apartment just so he can attack me? But staring at Richy thoughtfully as he waits for me, combing his fingers through his hair, he doesn't seem like a danger to me at all.

He's been fine so far. He hasn't been rude, he's just asked some extremely personal questions. He brought me dinner. Can I trust him knowing where I live?

I get up from my chair, tucking it in, still undecided on how to answer. I go to grab my bag, but he beats me to it. He reaches down, grabbing the strap on my gym bag, hoisting it up easily over his shoulder. I guess that's that then.

"We all done here?" Harry asks, glancing between us. He's come out from his behind counter to collect our plates.

"Yeah, we're done now, Harry," I say to him. "Thank you for the sandwich. Yours are always the best!"

"Oh, thank you, sweet girl."

I wave back at him with a smile as Richy holds the door open for me, then we head back out onto the street.

"How far is your house from here?" he asks, readjusting the strap of my bag around his shoulder. It's unbelievably nice of him to carry it for me.

"Just up the street," I tell him. "We just need to cross the street and then we're pretty much there. It's really close."

We start walking while I get my keys ready. Now it isn't so much the potential danger of letting Richy, virtually a stranger, walk me to my house that worries me. It's the state of my apartment.

This neighborhood isn't exactly fancy, and it was the cheapest one-bedroom rental apartment I could find that was closest to the club so that I can get to work easily on time. I don't have much furniture, with only being able to afford a few basic essentials from thrift shops or from people who wanted to give stuff away for cheap. I'm embarrassed for him to see where it is that I live and what it looks like inside it. It's the reason why I haven't asked anyone to come over; Especially not my mother for a visit.

We reach my apartment and I push open the gate, letting him through. The sensor lights flicker on, lighting up our way to the front door. What little of my garden is mainly dirt and weeds. The white paint on the apartment is chipping off the boards due to natural ware and tear, and my landlord doesn't really care about sprucing the place up.

I think I hear Mr Richy sigh loudly from behind me while I push the key into the lock. "So this is where you live? This is your neighborhood?"

I glance behind my shoulder at him while jiggling the lock, trying to get it to open. It gets stiff and jams sometimes, but it's still secure. Since I can see him through the sensor light, he appears... dismayed? He's tense as I finally manage to get the front door to my apartment open with some serious elbow grease.

"What's wrong with the lock?" he asks, and he doesn't bother hiding his distaste.

"I have trouble opening it sometimes when I get home. It's really unpredictable, but it locks okay from the inside."

"Have you notified your landlord?"

"I don't think my landlord even truly cares, to be honest. It locks from the inside when I go to bed. That's what I need the most."

I hesitate as I fully open the door, glancing back at him again. God, do I really want to do this? Do I really want to put myself through this and embarrass myself by letting Richy see my private place?

But I decide I have no choice. My stomach is filled with uneasiness as I flick on the light, my apartment becoming visible. I have no shoe rack, so some of my stilettos and sneakers are lined as neatly as possible by the wall to the side of the front door. Richy's careful not to trip over them, I notice. I try not to look at his face as he steps in, looking around. I only have a couch that I got off someone who was giving it away, and the fabric is torn and ratty with stains. They had a child that apparently loved eating food and dropping it on it.

I also have a small coffee table near the couch. I don't have a TV but I decided that's okay and that I don't really need one. I read more than I do watch TV anyway. But what I mainly care about, what I'm most proud of, is what's on the wall opposite us. My book collection.

I managed to score a large bookshelf very cheaply. I have multiple books on it, some second hand copies, some I got cheap from garage sales. Reading is my main enjoyment in life, something that pulls me through. So long as I have running water, some food, electricity, and books to read, then I am truly happy.

I outstretch my hand for my gym bag of gear, which he slides off his shoulder to hand back to me by the strap. I drop it on the couch while watching him check out my pad. He walks around the room, looking my couch and my coffee table. Then he strolls to where my books are, and where my little kitchen area is. I cannot believe I actually have someone like him in my apartment.

It's almost hilarious, how badly out of place he looks. Here he is, this gorgeous man, dressed head to toe in the finest of menswear, standing inside my small apartment that has strains on the walls and floor that I can't get rid of.

"Yeah, so... as you can see, this is my apartment," I murmur nervously, watching him.

He runs his fingers through his hair as he enters my kitchen, glancing in my sink. There's a few glasses that I haven't gotten around to washing up yet sitting on it. Housecleaning hasn't been a major priority at the moment, but now I wish I had put in some effort earlier on this morning before I left; I've always been too busy getting ready to leave to make it to my shift on time. He opens a few kitchen cabinets, inspecting my almost bare pantry and small grouping of kitchen utensils. I notice he even switches on the taps, fiddling around with the hot and cold water, testing the water running pressure with his fingers. What is he even doing?

"Tiny," he mutters, as if in shock. "It's tiny in here."

"Well, there's just me living here, so it's all I need."

I watch him walk around the kitchen, then he heads to the other rooms where my bathroom and bedroom is, helping himself, peering around. I follow him, bemused as he switches on the bathroom light, inspecting my sink and bathtub closely. All my make-up, hair products, and lipstick are lined along the sink. What is he looking for?

Shaking his head, he brushes past me, entering my bedroom this time. He flicks on the light, glancing at my bed which, thank God, I made neatly this morning before I left and the built-in wardrobe. I gaze at him while playing with my hands nervously as he wanders into my room, stepping near my bed. And then I realize what he's seen down on the floor near my bed.

"Why do you have a jar filled with dollar bills near your bed?" he asks slowly, and as he turns to look at me, he blinks at me, puzzled.

"I put most of my tips in there at the end of the day," I admit with a shrug. I don't know whether to laugh when he glances down at the jar again. He seems so confused. What? Richy hasn't put money in a jar before?

"You don't have a bank account?" He looks horrified.

"I do, but, um... it gets annoying going in there all the time to get the cash deposited into my account. Usually, I wait until it's at least a third full before I make the trip."

"And you're not concerned in any way about someone breaking in to steal it?"

"Sometimes, I am, sure."

He turns to look at me, both hands on his waist as he shakes his head at me. Suddenly, Richy looks so ashen for some reason, like he's in a state of serious shock. He mutters something unintelligible to himself, then he plops down onto the edge of my bed, glancing around my bedroom again while shaking his head. One hand goes to rest on his chest, while the other he uses to rub his face with.

Crap. I realize I've left a few clothes messily on the floor near my bed, some a few bras and panties. I really wish I'd cleaned this morning.

"How do you possibly live like this?" he asks breathlessly.

I almost laugh at his reaction and how badly he's taking this. I guess it's specifically the reason why I haven't had any people over to see how barely I get by and live with the bare necessities. "It's quite easy when you get used to it. I mean, I know it looks bad, but-"

"-Bad?" He mutters over me, shaking his head again. "You don't even have a television?"

"Well, I don't really need one. I like reading more anyway. When you live like this, you realize what's important and what's just considered a luxury. Reading's just as good as a television for escapism anyway, I find."

"And your mother is fine with letting you live like this?"

"Actually, my mom doesn't know what my apartment looks like," I point out.

Richy runs his hand through his hair again, frowning, as he glances up at my bedroom ceiling. There's a few cracks and mold growing, but there isn't anything I can do about that either.

"Jesus," he mutters softly. "This is fucking appalling." It's the first time I've heard him curse since meeting him properly and speaking to him tonight. "I never imagined you living in a place like this."

"Me? You never imagined _me_ living in a place like this?" I can't tell if he's trying to offend me or not.

"Isn't it obvious?" He swears again, tossing his head. "Your a fucking goddess!"

A goddess. I'm a goddess. No one has ever said something like that to me before. I've had some men at the club complimenting me when influenced by alcohol, but I've never been referred to as a 'goddess' before. It's incredibly sweet of him. And hot.

My first instinct is to laugh it off. "A goddess?" I murmur shyly. "No, I'm no goddess. Aphrodite's the goddess. Or Hera. Not me. Thank you, though."

"Well, I beg to differ."

"What did you imagine for me then?" I murmur, confused.

He runs his hands over his face before meeting my gaze again from where I'm standing, in front of him, several meters away, while he sits there, on the edge of my bed. It's so strange having a man in my room, especially a man as fine and as Mr Fancypants as Mr Richy obviously is.

"Honestly?" He arches his brows at me, his throat moving as he swallows. "Anything but..." He glances around my bedroom again. " _This_." He exhales out his mouth. "Someone like you, I thought would be... having the very best bed sheets covered in silk and a fucking diamond chandelier hanging on the ceiling. Not... a dump like _this_." He glances up at me quickly, to make sure he hasn't offended me by calling my place a 'dump', I guess.

"Well, it's my home," I murmur defensively with a shrug. "This is how I have to live. There's not much else I can do about that."

He nods once, meeting my eyes again. "Can I stay?" he asks in an unexpectedly soft, throaty voice, surprising me.

I feel the air leave my lungs as his dark, deep gray eyes slowly roam down my body. First, my face, then my throat. Then lower, past my jacket, my jeans.

"Stay?" I repeat unevenly, my mouth turning dry. "You mean... um, stay here?" He nods once more, his eyes turning softer, earnest, as his mouth parts. "As in stay for the, um... night? In my bed?" I'm surprised I can manage to sound so calm when asking it. No one has ever been this bold before, asking me if they can stay in my bed with me at my apartment.

But as I figured out tonight, I assumed Mr Richy was somehow different. There's something about him.

His directness, it's sexy. Everything about him is, really, though. Weird to think about someone I hardly know, a stranger I've barely met, but it's true.

"Stay in your bed with you for the night, yes."

"Why? Because you want to fuck me?" I cannot believe it comes out of my mouth, but it does. My voice is strong, filled with playful taunting.

Richy's mouth opens wider at my words, and then he closes his mouth hastily, trying to hide a smile as he recovers.

"Honestly? Yes," he breathes sincerely, his voice low. "Yes, I want to fuck you. Frankly, I've never wanted someone so much in my entire life until... I saw you for that first night, dancing in the club. So yes."

 **Hope you liked this chapter? It was longer than the others. Do you prefer longer over shorter or don't mind as long as its regular chapters coming in? Hope I am writing Ana and Christian's characters okay too? I feel like I'm not eek.**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Hi, I had an idea come to me, this will be different but hopefully still true to the characters E.L James created. Ana is a stripper working hard to afford college, while Christian is his usual, CEO possessive self. I would love to know if its something you'd like to read more of. This is inspired by the movie Pretty Woman, pretty much. Hope you enjoy the first chapter. I own nothing of the characters, they remain the authors respectfully, I just adore them.**_

 _ **Wanting you**_

 ** _Ana_**

 _"Honestly? Yes," he breathes sincerely, his voice low. "Yes, I want to fuck you. Frankly, I've never wanted someone so much in my entire life until... I saw you for that first night, dancing in the club. So yes."_

Oh, wow. Beneath all that chivalry and well-groomed handsomeness, Richy has a potty mouth.

I'm not sure why but I wasn't expecting it. Usually, I find men swearing and using vulgar words to be an instant turn off. Lord knows I hear enough swearing as it is at the club.

Only, there's something about Richy swearing, in that sultry, masculine voice of his, that doesn't make it a turn off. I wonder if he's sworn in front of his mother before or if he's a good boy. I wonder if she's even had to wash his mouth out with soap when he was younger for it. The thought brings a smile to my face.

"I wasn't aware that I said something so amusing?" Richy points out, his brows furrowing at me from where I stand, still in front of him, amazed that a guy like him is in my bedroom. He runs both hands over my sheets next to him, stroking the linen. Again, I'm happy I thought of making my bed before heading into work for my shift this afternoon.

"I just find it funny, hearing a Rich Boy like you swear," I admit, my voice breathless with a restrained giggle. "You have quite the potty mouth. Do you swear in front of your mother?" I'm teasing, of course.

He ignores the 'mother' comment while turning his head slightly to the side, but I think I see a ghost of a smile there. "Well, it's true, what I said. I _do_ want to fuck you."

Again, his boldness, his candidness, it takes my breath away. Fuck has never sounded so good coming from a man's mouth before.

"I'm not going to apologize for saying that. I'm used to being blunt and saying what I want, in most things."

"And I wasn't expecting you to apologize," I murmur, hating how my voice sounds. God, you'd think I'd never heard someone speak rather dirty before when, of course, I have. Being in the industry where I work in, you notice a certain aura of sexual tension in the room from the dancers and the customers. But that's work, never real life. I can't say I've been in a situation like this before, not in my normal day to day life, at the very least. "Okay, so... hypothetically, just say we _were_ to fuck."

"Yes?"

"What would happen?"

"Well..."

Richy inhales in deeply, his expression thoughtful as his eyes roam down my body again slowly, from my face, right down to the very tips of my sneakers. There's something salacious and needy in his gaze, and as he returns his eyes back to my face after giving me a once over, I notice he licks his lips, moistening them with his tongue. Just like with the way he drank, the way he ate at Harry's diner, I am captivated by that sexy mouth of his and that tongue.

"First, I would peel you out of your clothes, taking my time... undressing you."

"Uh-huh," I prompt, very softly, biting on my bottom lip with my teeth. "And then?" I'm enjoying this. It's like an exciting game. And so far, I definitely like what I'm hearing.

" _Then_ , you would be left standing before me in just your panties and your bra..." His deep gray eyes are scorching hot and arresting, only on mine.

"Then what would you do to me?"

"Then..." he murmurs, his voice going deeper, more strained. He stops briefly, clearing his throat roughly. "Then I would tie you up."

 _Oh, now this has turned into an unexpectedly different route. He'd tie me up?_ "You'd tie me up?" I repeat, arching my brows. "With what? What would you tie me up with and... where?"

"With... this." He's surprisingly creative. With deliberate slowness, he lifts his hands, unloosening his tie from around his neck. Then slipping his forefinger through the knot, he yanks it loose. He pulls it away and down from his collar, clenching the long material up between his hands. "I'd tie your hands up. To the bed post." He leans over to tap a hand against the solid plank of wood on either side of my bed. "I'd kneel down until I'm on my knees. And then, with you restrained at the hands around the bed post, I'd slowly remove your panties." I'm unable to do anything else but stare at him at his soft, low words, captivated. "Then..." he begins, telling me he's not quite done yet, his eyes slowly slinking down my body again. They pause and stop around my waist, between my thighs. "I'd lean in, and I'd taste your pussy."

I can feel my body going warm at his words, my cheeks especially. Damn, he's good.

"And I'd keep tasting you until you were close to coming, but then I'd...stop, just before you did." His breathing matches mine, going quicker, shallower. He's turned on at the thought of what he'd do if I'd allow him to fuck me and, admittedly, I'm in the same boat as well. "Right at the perfect, precise moment, I'd stop, feeling you writhing around me and moaning, desperate for a release."

Wow. I did not know Richy had it in him. His words are seductive, like this is foreplay, without even touching. Just words and his voice alone.

"That's a bit cruel, isn't it?" I manage, my voice too shaky and winded. "To leave me hanging?"

"Oh, I'd show mercy... in the end." The corners of Richy's lips curl upward into a faint smile as he meets my gaze again. There's a distant, dreamy look in his eyes, as if he's lost in the fantasy, in the moment. "I'd show mercy by pushing you back onto the bed, putting myself inside you. And then I'd fuck you. _Hard_."

And there's that filthy word again. Fuck.

"You sound as if you have a very, um... specific idea of what you'd like to do to me in mind?" I point out, aware that my thighs and knees are shaking. I hope he can't notice.

"I do. I'm very... particular."

"So what if I'm saying yes?" I ask, the words coming out before I even know what I'm attempting to say. "To you, um, fucking me, I mean?"

I'm surprised I'm actually even considering it. Well, I suppose in some ways I'm really not. I've never met a man like Richy before; one who immediately takes my fancy. I don't even know him, aside from noticing the man liking to observe me as I perform on the stage at the club every night, and yet... I want him to do all those things to my body that he described he would if we did, in fact, fuck tonight.

It's hard for me to meet the right man, considering my circumstances.

I haven't really tried dating all that much, but I've heard from some of the other girl's they've experienced hardships with dating and seeing men due to their profession.

I don't see it as me being picky, but being around horny men at a club most hours, men who drunkenly talk about wanting to see your pussy or tits, it's a welcome change when you meet someone like Mr Richy.

Someone like Richy who treats you like a normal person in a club and not a piece of meat. And, evidently, someone who is handsome and chivalrous, and obviously well-off.

Kate told me how she met this man who she thought liked her for her intelligence and mind, when really, he'd just wanted a piece of her. He hadn't truly wanted a long lasting relationship with her. It was just all about the sex and her body.

I also get the sense that men feel somewhat intimidated by what I do. Or just by their mistaken assumptions, they assume your similar to a prostitute and that you suck men off for a living when really, all you do is dance, and the misconception turns them off.

I've heard from another girl's experience in the club that the last man she was seeing, he became erratic and jealous and demanded she quit her job because he couldn't handle the thought of other men seeing her body. This is all that I've heard from the other girls that I'm close to and their experiences with dating with being a stripper. I suppose that is somewhat why I've been reluctant to form a relationship with a man myself; All their stories and wise words.

But tonight, I want to be a little daring. I like him, and I'm attracted to him- the first man I feel I've really been attracted to ever since working at the club.

I want to let loose and for once, know what it's like to be with a man sexually. And tonight, that target is Mr Richy. He's the man that I want, that I find myself completely willing to take a risk and give myself over to.

"Yes," I answer softly after what feels like years, my eyes on nothing else but his from where he sits, on my bed, playing with his business tie that he removed from around his collar.

He eyes me very seriously for a moment, like he's trying to decide whether I'm being honest or not. "Yes?"

"Yes." I nod for further clarification, licking my lips. "Yes, I want to. Tonight. With you." And it's probably going to be the bravest thing I've ever done with someone.

To make it more real, I guess, I grab the bottom of my jumper, lifting up and off me. Releasing my arms from the sleeves, I toss it down on my bedroom floor. Then I kick off each trainer, keeping my eyes on him, excitement coursing through my veins, need. I've never been more sure and I know I won't regret this. With my shin, I slide my shoes to the wall, shoving them out of the way. Then as I go to unbutton my jeans, Richy suddenly jumps into action, getting to his feet.

"Take nothing else off," he says, in that voice that sounds like an order.

Obeying him, I stand still, watching, every thing he does making me feel even more achy with desire. He dumps his tie on the bed, then takes off his jacket, draping it over one of my bed posts. The white shirt he is wearing is tight, clinging to his body. Even with just the way he moves, I can tell he takes good care of himself. His bicep muscles and his abdominals strain beneath the fabric.

His eyes are intent on me and he doesn't take them off for me for a single second. Not even when he bends down to untie one shoelace and remove his right shoe, then alternating on his other knee, he does the other. His eyes drink me in, assessing me. Even while I move to close my curtains up securely, he's still watching me. Standing to his full six feet height, he shoves his own polished shoes to the side, and it's then that I become aware that he's panting.

We say nothing as I hold his gaze when he steps closer until he's standing directly in front of me. Then he reaches down, grabbing the bottom of my shirt. He starts to lift it up and I bring up my arms, helping him out so he can get it off easier. He tosses my shirt down at our feet, then he kneels at my feet on his knees.

It feels strange, not being the one taking off my clothes, but I let him. It's what he described that he wanted to do to me, after all. I'm all too happy to go along with it.

He unbuttons my jeans, then yanks down the zipper, peeling them down past my thighs. While he does it, sliding my jeans down, he touches me, his hands gliding down my legs as well along with the movement, feeling my skin.

If this were work, and I were doing a routine for him, Richy wouldn't be allowed to touch me at all. But this isn't work. This is all me, and him. I want him touching me.

Looking down at him, he raises his head, meeting my eyes. His lips are parted, his tongue between his teeth. I lift each foot as he carefully drags my jeans away. Then he removes each of my socks, but Richy lets his fingers trace from my toes, to my very heel. It makes me ticklish and I try not to laugh.

"Dry," he murmurs, and his eyes leave mine as he lifts one of my feet up again by my ankle. Like before, I have to press my lips together to refrain from giggling out loud when Richy traces both thumbs on each hand down my foot, starting from my ankles, to my inner foot, then to the back of my toes.

He holds my foot in his hand and treats it with his fingertips in what seems to me an extremely gentle, caressing way. Does Richy have a surprise foot fetish also?

But I realize his reason for it when, as he reaches the end of my foot to my ankle again, he applies the lightest bit of pressure with his thumbs, massaging. My ankles have been killing me for a long time now. Even although I've been working for almost a full month, they still haven't gotten used to being in high heels all the time.

"That's what happens when you wear stilettos and are on your feet most days when you aren't used to it yet," I mutter, arching my back uncontrollably. A hiss leaves my mouth as he presses down a bit firmer with his thumbs. It feels really good, really comforting on my feet. "God, that feels great," I gush out when he switches foot, starting to do it with my other one, applying pressure. "My feet get so sore."

Putting my foot down, I don't know what happens next or what he's going to do. Until he starts again, running both hands slowly up along my left leg, up my calf and to my knees.

"Bruises," Richy mutters, and when I drop my head down to see what he's doing, I feel my heart race.

Leaning in, he plants an open mouthed, gentle kiss to just below my knee, where I know one of the bruises are. I get bruises a lot, and easily.

"It sort of comes with the territory of trying to dance provocatively when you know fair well that you are extremely clumsy, " I mutter by way of explanation, my voice too high, too unsteady.

His hands glide up further past my thigh, his fingers flexing gently. He moves his mouth away, only to kiss another bruise on the side of my thigh. This bruise, I know is the worst. I noticed it a couple of days ago, and it was swollen and a deep purple. I feel myself quiver at the knees as he parts his mouth, enough that I can feel Richy breathing moist, warm breathes against the grotesque bruise.

Then, startling me, he brings out his tongue, swirling it around that bruise, an odd yet weirdly erotic sensation. His tongue is slippery, yet hot, oddly comforting on that bruise.

"Mm," I hear myself moaning out loud, quivering again.

At the back of my mind, I realize this isn't quite what Richy had said it would be, as far as what he would do if we were fucking goes. Not once did he describe doing this; Tenderly massaging my sore heels and also, kissing my bruises.

It almost feels like what two people would do if they were making love. Being gentle and tender, kissing away all those rough spots, those sores.

He does the same with my other leg. He switches legs, running both hands up along the curve of my calf, my thighs. His mouth is on me as he pants roughly, kissing, licking and probing with his soothingly slippery tongue on tender mottled bruises from numerous clumsy incidents, like slipping over in my heels, knocking myself against poles. Reaching down with both hands as Richy moves on his knees to the side of me, I clutch his hair, feeling how thick it is, how soft in my hands.

Throughout all my heavy breathing and moans as he kisses along my legs, I realize he's still wearing his clothes. Releasing his hair, I manage to reach down lower, grasping his shirt collar between my fingers, yanking tight.

Richy leans back to glance up at me, his chin resting near my bare hipbone. "Aren't you going to take off your clothes too?" I mutter in confusion, my voice hoarse.

Recognition glimmers in his deep gray eyes, and he gets to his feet, then stands. His eyes still on me, he unbuttons his trousers and the zipper, and pulls them down, stepping out of them. Then Richy's hands go to the front of his shirt, and he seems to take his time, undoing the buttons one by one. As he gets to the forth one, his shirt opens up, his chest bared to me. I see a few strange marks there; What looks like little round scars, but he doesn't say anything about them.

I wait for him to mention something about it so I don't have to try ask him about them myself, only he doesn't. He shrugs out of his shirt, throwing it at his feet. Just as I assumed with how the shirt clung tightly to him, he's very muscular and toned. Very sexy. He could even be a stripper if he wanted to- of the male kind. Those little marks on his chest aren't distracting at all.

Glancing away from me, Richy reaches for something on the bed. I realize what that is immediately. His tie. His little fantasy of tying me up to the bed at the wrists.

"Hold out your hands," he murmurs, and as he meets my gaze again, I notice a shift in his expression. He looks serious, and his words... it was definitely an order. He's good at making orders.

"Okay." I hold out both hands in front of me and then he makes a loop with his tie around my wrists. He fastens them together, until it's reasonably tight, but not too tight. And then, grabbing me by the hips, he pushes me backwards, guiding me towards my bed. My breathing starts to grow even heavier in surprise.

As I fall back against my lumpy mattress, he climbs on top of me, each knee near mine as he yanks and pulls my wrists up. He's in his element, and I realize that instantly as I watch Richy with wide-eyes as he remains above me, the way he effortlessly secures my wrists to the head board with his tie.

"You're good at this," I murmur, impressed when I try to get free.

"You'd hope so," he murmurs, and even I can tell he's excited. He's turned on by this, Richy is. He's enjoying being on top of me while I'm powerless, unable to move with my arms. "Not too tight?" he asks, staring down at me. His eyes go brighter, wider, as I attempt to struggle and get my wrists free. It's impossible to, he's done a great job securing my hands.

"It's good," I whisper, quickly exhausted by all my arm pulling. "Your really good at tying up hands and securing them to things."

I swallow nervously when he reaches behind me, unclasping my bra. I've never bared my body to someone before; I mean, I've never really been properly nude at work. I either just wear bras or pasties, little slip things to cover my nipples. I've never shown myself to a man before. As Richy throws my bra behind his shoulder, I force myself to look at nothing else but his face as his eyes roam down, inspecting my chest that's bared to him.

I've never been more thankful for my profession as I am right now. Being an exotic dancer, where it's focused on much on my body's appearance, it makes me feel more confident right now about bearing myself to a man for the aim of sexual pleasure; the first time I ever have.

He licks his lips as he closes his eyes for a moment at the sight of my breasts. Just when I'm assuming Richy has gone all shy at the sight of them, he reopens his eyes to slowly gaze down at me. "Your beautiful," he mutters. "Your thighs, your feet, all of you. Especially... your breasts."

"Thanks. Usually I never go topless." The embarrassing words leave my mouth without my control. "At least not yet anyway." I bite my lip, breathing heavily as he leans down. Suddenly he's pressing a chaste kiss to both of my nipples, and I feel them harden beneath his lips, my body trembling. "When are you..." I feel like I cannot even speak properly, I'm struggling. "When are you going to fuck me, Richy?"

I don't even have the time to feel mortified over my impatient words when he reaches down, gliding the trembling fingers of one hand slowly down between us. His knuckles brush against my bare belly, and then my stomach jolts and tenses, when he digs his fingers in beneath the fabric of my panties. Without even warning me, Richy's fingers slide into the folds of my pussy, and I know he can feel how warm I am, how moist. I can see the evidence of his discovery written plainly all over his face when Richy closes his eyes again, pleasure coming across his face as his mouth parts.

"Fuck, you're sopping wet," he murmurs, and he pumps in and out of me, starting a continuing rhythm.

My pussy starts throbbing as I buck against him involuntarily, following the movement of his fingers. I have never felt something so good in my entire life, and I cry out, arching my head back. I've pleasured myself a few times, of course, but nothing can compare to this, to a man doing it with his own fingers.

I can only muster up a soft, hopeless whine as Richy brutally removes his hand out from my panties, stopping his delicious ministrations. My pussy is still throbbing, the fabric of my panties feeling moist and warm. When I stare up at him in disappointment, Richy looks pleased with himself. That look of smug satisfaction doesn't leave when he starts moving down my body, careful not to squish me with his knees. As he glides down the mattress, he hooks his fingers onto the sides of my panties, and he wrenches them down along with him as he goes.

I shut my eyes, my heart hammering in my ears thunderously as no doubt my pussy is exposed to him, the first time I've let a man see even that. He goes between my knees with his legs, parting mine, pushing my legs wider apart. My cry of surprise is even louder when, without warning me yet again of what he's doing, Richy's suddenly between there with his head.

"Holy shit," I moan when I feel his mouth go on me. For some reason, it completely startles me, but it shouldn't have been unexpected. My knees begin to shake and want to clench closed at their own volition; He stops it by clasping onto each ankle with his hands tightly, keeping them apart so he can freely taste me and pleasure me with his mouth and tongue.

Or maybe he did warn me? It's all so hard to think...

 _"I'd kneel down until I'm on my knees. And then, with you restrained at the hands around the bed post, I'd slowly remove your panties."_

He's remaining pretty true to his words, I realize, bucking against him as his mouth finds my clit. He sucks and licks it, doing things with his mouth that are so amazing I can't even put it into words. And then, just like with his fingers, he stops brutally, out of nowhere. The pleasure of his mouth stops, and I'm left crying out again, my wrists chafing against the fine silk of his tie as I thrash in unfair outrage. I'm shaking, traumatized by him not following through, my pussy sore and desperately throbbing for a release.

 _"I'd lean in, and I'd taste your pussy. And I'd keep tasting you until you were close to coming, but then I'd...stop, just before you did..."_

I stare up at him, exhausted, drained with unfulfilled pleasure as he lifts his head to meet my gaze. His lips are glistening, wet with my arousal. And the way Richy looks... the wicked way he's left me hanging. He licks his lips, getting me off his mouth, and holy crap.

"Wow, your full of surprises, aren't you?" I mutter, my voice squeaky and barely audible. "Just like you said... with your... your hypothetical fucking. You came through." I wonder if he can tell how puffed out I am, how difficult it is to even manage to speak.

"I always like to follow through and act on what I want," Richy says, sounding just a breathless himself.

I cry out again, blinking at him in confusion as Richy suddenly gets off the bed. I struggle to see him as he moves around the bed, my bound arms in the way. Is he leaving? Is he going to leave me here like this, dying for a release while tied to my headboard?

I hear the sound of something ripping, and my heart stops in relief. Richy's still in the room, he's just... doing something. Ripping something?

I catch him out of the corner of my eye again as the mattress moves. Richy gets back on the bed so he's straddling me carefully, and then his face is back near mine as he supports himself upright with his hands near each side of my head.

We're both panting, equally as loud as each other.

"I'm going to fuck you now," he explains, warning me. And then I feel him, his head at my entrance. One hand weaves into my hair that's on the pillow, and he bends down, his nose going near it, breathing the strands in as suddenly, he pushes into me.

I groan out at the intrusive yet good feeling, and then Richy draws out and does it again... and again.

After getting accustomed to the sensation. I start moving, bucking, pushing back and forth, following his movements. I hear him grunting above me, panting. And then he draws out again, leaving me, just as I was starting to feel that pleasure settle in.

I turn my chin, meeting his gaze in confusion as he peers down at me, his fingers still in my hair. "Why'd you-" I murmur in frustration, and he laughs breathlessly, shortly, at my words.

"I told you," he mutters in a strained, shaky voice. "I intend to draw this out for as long as humanly possible until you scream my name."

"Richy," I moan in relief, when he thrusts inside me again.

"No," he whispers as he rests his forehead against mine, breathing on me raggedly. This time, he doesn't stop. I move against him again furiously, bucking, meeting him thrust to thrust. I've never felt something so intense, so good before.

"Richy," I breathe again, my voice a strangled cry. I manage to twist my arms around a fraction, my elbows touching his ears as the sensation builds and grows. "Richy. Richy. Richy." I begin to chant it beneath my breath, and as I peer up at him, he stares back, his forehead crumpled as he goes faster, harder, with each thrust.

When it finally happens and we both reach that delicious peak, then rapid decline, I say his name again, although I don't know if he'd consider it screaming or not. Afterwards, he remains inside me for a few minutes while we recoup.

I think he wants to kiss me. Well, he'll lean down a few times, like he's about to mash his mouth into mine, but then I notice Richy will move, resting his warm cheek against mine instead as he breathes loudly.

When he finally pulls out, I wince at the movement. He falls on his back beside me, breathing. Then he reaches over to unfasten my wrists from the tie, and I let them fall to my side, breathing loudly myself. My thoughts are non-existent, my body flushed, sweaty. When I glance over at Richy on the bed beside me, he looks just as contently exhausted as I do.

"Wow, that was..." I still can't even properly talk. I feel like I've gone into a coma.

"Christian," he mumbles beside me, and when I turn my head to look at him, his expression is strange. He appears almost frustrated. Disappointed, even.

"Huh?"

"My name isn't Richy." Leaning up, he rests on his side with his elbow supporting his weight. He peers down at me, his hair damp with sweat. There's a look in his deep gray eyes as he scrutinizes my face. Is that hurt I see there in his eyes? "It's Christian. My name is Christian."

Christian. He's not Mr Richy. His name is Christian. It takes me too long to realize we don't even know each other's names.

"Ana," I whisper back, giving him my own. "My name is Ana."

"Ana," he repeats, and he laughs breathlessly again. "Ana. I knew your name had to be something beautiful like you are. Ana." My name sounds good in his voice, and him, calling both me and it beautiful, it makes my face radiate heat. "Ana," he says one last time.

"Christian," I whisper back, trying to get familiar with putting that name to his face myself, and then, for the first time since tonight, he reaches down and kisses me, his hand coming up to firmly clasp my chin and keep my head still.

When I wake with a jolt, it's still dark. Something's woken me up, an abrupt banging noise. Voices shout; A man and a woman, both crying and arguing. "You bitch," the man shouts. "I know you were there!"

I glance beside me to check and see if he's still there hopefully, noticing Richy- Christian's- shadow beside me as he leans against the headboard of my bed, awake. His feet are angled and resting between mine beneath the sheets, keeping mine warm. He's still here. He stayed, just like he actually asked if he could. I feel in a relieved, sleepy happiness. Until I become more aware of the noises and that banging sound again, and just what it means.

"Oh no," I murmur, when the voices start screaming.

"What's going on?" He must have been awake for a while now, probably because of the sounds. He isn't used to them like I am, obviously. It happens a lot; Practically ever since I moved in here.

"This neighborhood isn't exactly the greatest," I admit hesitantly. He already expressed his disgust at how my apartment is, what with the minimal furniture and things. I hope it won't make him even more disgusted now. "The neighbors next door, the man and woman, they're always fighting. They shout and cry a lot. The first night I moved in here, the police were even called to help resolve their domestic fight."

"How can you even possibly sleep through all that racket?" he asks.

"You get used to it after a while."

"Jesus." I can't see his face in the dark, but I can hear the shock and dismay in his voice clearly, "You really need a new place to live."

"Maybe," I murmur softly in agreement. And then I rest my head back down into my pillow, dozing off again.

 _ **Thank you for your reviews and the followings and favorites alerts, it means a lot. Nervous about this chapter but at least they finally know their real names. Seeing as Ana works in a place where its very sexualized, I hope you don't mind if she's not overly coy, etc. It wouldn't have fit, but I'll see what you think. Please be kind as I've never written anything like this before and I bet you can tell, I feel its horribly written.**_


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